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“Suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto me, for 
of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”— Matt, iq; 14. 






OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN, 


A COLLECTION OF CONSOLATORY POEMS. 


COMPED BY 

MADISON C: 1ETERS, D. D„ 

Minister, Bloomingdale Church, 
New York City. 


Author of “The Great Hereafter,” etc. 






Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 

Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,— 

The Poets ! Who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 

WiUvam Wordsworth. 


NEW YORK: 

WILMORE-ANDREWS PUBLISHING CO., 
24 EAST 24th STREET, 

1897. 


To the Members 
of My Congregation 
for Whose Comfort 
These Selections 
are Especially Made 
this Volume 
is 

Affectionately Dedicated 


copyright, by 
JAMES A. WILMORE, 

1897. 




INTRODUCTORY. 


Henry Ward Beeclier writes : “ It is not when your 
children are with you, it is not when you see them 
and hear the .i that they are most to you ; it is when 
the sad assembly is gone ; it is when the daisies have 
resumed their growing again in the place where the 
little form was laid ; it is when you have carried your 
children out and said farewell, and come home again, 
and day and night are full of sweet memories ; it is 
when summer and winter are full of touches and sug¬ 
gestions of them ; it is when you cannot look up 
toward God without thinking of them, nor look down 
toward yourself and not think of them ; it is when 
they have gone out of your arms, and are living to 
you only by the power of the imagination, that they 
are most to you. 

“ The invisible children are the realest children, the 
sweetest children, the truest children, the children 
that touch our hearts as no hands of flesh ever could 
touch them.” 

This truth that the children whom God ‘has taken 
away from us are our permanent possessions forever is 
thus happily phrased by Tennyson : 

God gives us love ; something to love 
He lends us ; but when love is grown 
To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 


A child’s death always brings new blessings to the 
home. To Lowell it was like a new marriage : 

I felt instantly, 

Deep in my soul another bond to Thee 
Thrill with that life we saw depart from her. 

O mother of our angel-child ! twice dear ! 

Death knits as well as parts. 

And when Christian faith rules our life, the baby 
will surely not have come in vain, though brief the 
stay, and with Lowell we can see that : 

’Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up . 

Whose golden rounds are our calamities, 

Whereon, our firm feet planting, nearer God 
The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. 
Through the clouded glass 
Of our own bitter tears we learn to look 
Undazzled on the kindness of God’s face ; 

Earth is too dark, and heaven alone shines through. 


•7 


AUTHORS AND TITLES. 



PAGE. 

Resignation, 

H. W Longfellow, 

10 

Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Publishers. 


The Beckoning Hand, 

J. G. Whittier, 

11 

Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Publishers. 


On the Death of a Friend’s Child. J. R. Lowell, 

13 

Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Publishers. 


A Mother’s Lament, 

James Montgomery, 

17 

Requiem, 

Julia R. McMasters, 

18 

Loss and Gain, 

Nora Perry, 

19 

Our Eldest Born, 

Thomas Ward, 

20 

On the Death of a Child, 

Anonymous, 

22 

She’s Gane toDwallin Heaven, Allan Cunningham, 

23 

The Mother’s First Grief, 

R. S. Chilton, 

25 

A Fair Sight, 

Mrs. A. S. Menteath, 

27 

The Little Graves, 

Seba Smith, 

28 

The Reaper—Death, 

H. W. Longfellow, 

31 

The First Snowfall, 

J. R. Lowell, 

33 

For Charlie’s Sake, 

J. W. Palmer, 

35 

Baby’s Shoes,. 

W. C. Bennett, 

38 

David’s Grief, 

N. P. Willis, 

40 

Sleep On, My Baby, 

R. Huie, 

45 

Where your Babe Is, 

Anonymous, 

46 

Much the Best, 

Helen Hunt Jackson, 

47 

Roberts Bros., Publishers, Boston. 


Better in the Morning, 

L. S. Coan, 

49 

Sweet To Die, 

Anonymous, 

53 

My Child, 

John Pierpont, 

54 

Through The Curtain, 

Bishop Doane, 

57 



PAGE. 


Sweet Boy at Rest, 

Anonymous, 

58 

A Child in Heaven, 

London Aiheri, 

59 

Death of a Child, 

Charles Wesley, 

60 

The Early Called, 

Anonymous, 

61 

Still Ours, 

W. H. Burleigh, 

62 

Whom The Gods Love Die Young, Lord Byron, 

63 

We Miss Them, 

Cardinal Newman, 

63 

“Come This Way, Father, 

Anonymous, 

64 

Not Ours To Keep, 

William Barnes, 

66 

Early Lost and Saved, 

Anonymous, 

67 

Resignation, 

Charlotte Bronte 

68 

Thy Will Be Done, 

Anonymous, 

70 

The Darkened Nursery, 

Anonymous, 

72 

The Pitcher of Tears, 

Laura E. Richards, 

73 

Questionings, 

Mary Lowe Dickinson, 

75 

Our First Born, 

Robert Southey, 

76 

Empty Cradles, 

Anonymous, 

77 

The Dead Boy, 

William Allen Butler, 

79 

My Baby, 

The Evangelist, 

80 

Sowing in Tears, 

Anonymous, 

82 

A Mother’s Lament, 

Elizabeth Trefusis, 

84 

My Boy, Hans Christian Anderson, 

85 

An Indian Mother’s Love, 

E. S. 8., 

87 

We Are Seven, 

William Wordsworth, 

89 

A Year in Heaven, 

Anonymous, 

92 

The Reconciliation, 

Alfred Tennyson, 

94 


Our Children i.n F[e/iven. 


CECIC ATE child, pale and 
prematurely wise, was complaining 
on a hot morning that the poor 
dewdrop had been too hastily 
snatched away, and not allowed to 
glitter on the flowers like other 
happier dewdrops that live the whole night through 
and sparkle in the moonlight and through the morn¬ 
ing onward to noonday. “ The sun,” said the child, 
“has chased them away with his heat, or swallowed 
them in his wrath.” Soon after came rain and a rain¬ 
bow, whereupon his father pointed upward. “See,” 
said he, “ there stand thy dewdrops gloriously 
reset—a glittering jewel—in the heavens, and the 
clownish foot tramples on them no more. By this, 
my child, thou art taught that what withers upon 
earth blooms again in heaven.” Thus the father 
spoke, and knew not that he spoke prefiguring 
words ; for soon after the delicate child, with the 
morning brightness of his early wisdom, was ex¬ 
haled like a dewdrop into heaven .—Jean Paul 
Richter . 

RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ; 

There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, 

But has one vacant chair. 





OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mourning for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! these severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise ; 

And oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mist and vapors ; 
Amid these earthly damps 

What seem to us but .sad funeral tapers, 

May be heaven’s distant lamps. 

There is no death ! what seems so is transition : 
This life of mortal breath 

Is but the suburb of the life Elysian 
Whose portals we call death. 

She is not dead—the child of our affection— 

But gone into that school 

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ Himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, 
She lives, whom we call dead. 

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellozv. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


11 


THE BECKONING HAND. 

Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 

And glows once more with angel steps 
The path which reaches heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of autumn time 
Has left us with the flowers. 

The light of her young life went down 
As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star— 

Clearly, suddenly, and still. 

The blessing of her quiet life 
Fell on us like the dew, 

And good thoughts w y here her footsteps pressed, 
Like fairy blossoms grew. 

We miss her in the place of prayer, 

And by the hearth fire’s light ; 

We pause beside her door to hear 
Once more her sweet ‘ ‘ good night. ’ ’ 

There seems a shadow on the day, 

Her smile no longer cheers ; 

A dimness on the stars of night 
Like eyes that look through tears. 


2 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Alone unto our Father’s will, 

One thought hath reconciled ; 

That He whose love exceedeth ours 
Hath taken home His child. 

Fold her, O Father ! in Thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 
Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild, rebuking stand 
Between us and the wrong, 

And her dear memory serve to make 
Our faith in goodness strong. 

And grant that she, who, trembling here 
Distrusted all her powers, 

May welcome to her holier home 
The well beloved of ours. 

— J. G. Whittier 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


13 


ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD. 

Death never came so nigh to me before, 

Nor showed me his mild face : Oft I had mused 
Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, 

Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest, 

And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, 

Of faults forgotten, and an inner place 
Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends; 

But these were idle fancies satisfied 
With the mere husk of this great Mystery, 

And dwelling in the outward show of things. 
Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, 

Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth 
Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom, 
With earth’s warm patch of sunshine well content : 
’Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up 
Whose golden rounds are our calamities, 

Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God 
The .spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. 

True is it that Death’s face seems stern and cold, 
When he is sent to summons those we love, 

But all God’s angels come to us disguised ; 

Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, 

One after another lift their frowning masks, 

And we behold the seraph’s face beneath, 

All radiant with the glory and the calm 
Of having looked upon the smile of God. 


14 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


With every anguish of our earthly pass 
The spirit’s sight grows clearer ; this was meant 
When lesus touched the blind man’s lids with clay. 
Life is the jailor, Death the angel sent 
To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. 

He flings not ope the ivory gate of Rest— 

Only the fallen spirit knocks at that— 

But to benigner regions beckons us, 

To destinies of more rewarded toil. 

In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, 

It grates on us to hear the flood of life 
Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. 

The bee hums on ; around the blossomed vine 
Whirs the light humming-bird ; the cricket chirps ; 
The locust’s shrill alarum stings the ear ; 

Hard by, the cock shouts lustily ; from farm to farm, 
His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, 

Answer, till far away the joyance dies ; 

We never knew before how T God had filled 
The summer air with happy living sounds ; 

All round us seems an overplus of life, 

And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. 

It is most strange, when the great Miracle 
Hath for our sakes been done ; when we have had 
Our inwardest experience of God, 

When with his presence still the room expands, 

And is awed after him, that naught is changed, 

That Nature’s face looks unacknowledging, 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


i5 


And the mad world still dances heedless on 
After its butterflies and gives no sigh. 

’Tis hard at first to see it all aright ; 

In vain Faith blows her trumpet to summons back 
Her scattered troop ; yet, through the clouded glass 
Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look 
Undazzled on the kindness of God’s face ; 

Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. 

How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy 
child’s ! 

He bends above thy cradle, or holds 
His warning finger out to be their guide ; 

Thou art the nursling now ; he watches thee 
Slow learning, one by one, the secret things 
Which are to him used sights of every day ; 

He smiles to see thy wandering glances on 
The grass and pebbles of the spirit w T orld, 

To thee miraculous ; and he will teach 
Thy knees their due observances of prayer. 

Children are God’s apostles, day by day, 

Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace ; 

Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone. 

To me, at least, his going hence hath given 
Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, 

And opened a new fountain in my heart 
For thee, my friend, and all: and 0 I 1 , if Death 
More near approaches, meditates and clasps 
Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, 


i6 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


God, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see 
That ’tis thy loving angel who, with haste, 

Unto the service of the inner shrine 
Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss ! 

—James Russell Lowell. 



OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


J 7 


A MOTHER’S LAMENT. 

I loved thee, daughter of my heart ; 

My child, I loved thee dearly ; 

And though we only meet to part,— 
How sweetly ! how severely ! 

Nor life nor death can sever 
My soul from thine forever. 

Thy days, my little one, were few ; 

An angel’s mourning visit, 

That came and vanished with the dew. 

’Twas here,—’tis gone—where is it ? 
Yet didst thou leave behind thee 
A clue for love to find thee. 

Sarah ! my last, my youngest love, 

The crown of every other ! 

Though thou art born in heaven above 
I am thine only Mother ! 

Nor will affection let me 
Believe thou canst forget me. 

Then—thou in heaven and I on earth— 
May this one hope delight us, 

That thou wilt hail my second birth, 
When death shall reunite us, 

Where worlds no more can sever 
Parent and child forever. 


—James Montgomery. 


18 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 
REQUIEM. 

Lowly, shining head, where we lay thee down 
With the lowly dead, droop thy golden crown ! 
Meekly, marble palms, fold across the breast, 
Sculptured in white calms of unbreaking rest ! 
Softly, starry eyes, veil your darkened spheres, 
Nevermore to rise in summershine or tears ! 
Calmly crescent lips, yield your dewy rose 
To the wan eclipse of this pale repose ! 

Slumber, aural shells ! No more dying. Even 
Though your spiral cells weaveth gales of heaven. 
Stilly, slender feet, rest from rosy rhyme, 

With the ringing sweet of her silver chime ! 

Holy smile of God, spread the glory mild 
Underneath the sod on this little child ! 


—Julia R. Me Masters. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 


19 


LOSS AND GAIN. 

When the baby died, we said, 

With a sudden, .secret dread, 

“ Death, be merciful, and pass ;— 

Leave the other ! ”—but alas ! 

While we watched he waited there, 

One foot on the golden stair, 

One hand beckoning at the gate, 

Till the house was desolate. 

Friends say, “ It is better so, 

Clothed in innocence to go 
Say, to ease the parting pain, 

That ‘ ‘ your loss is but their gain. * ’ 

Ah ! the parents think of this ! 

But remember more the kiss 
From the little rose-red lips ; 

And the print of finger-tips. 

Left upon the broken toy, 

Will remind them how the boy 
And his sister charmed the days 
With their pretty, winsome ways. 

Only time can give relief 
To the weary, lonesome grief : 

God’s sweet minister of pain 
Then shall sing of loss and gain. 

—Nora Perry. 


20 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


OUR ELDEST-BORN. 

Thou bright and starlight spirit, 

That in my vision wild 

I see ’mid heaven’s seraphic host, 

Oh ! canst thou be my child ? 

Our hopes of thee were lofty ; 

But have we cause to grieve 

Oh ! would our proudest, fondest wish 
A nobler fate conceive? 

The little weeper—tearless ; 

The sinner—snatched from sin ; 

The babe—to more than manhood grown 
E’er childhood did begin. 

Thy brain so misinstructed 
While in this lowly state, 

Now treads the mazy tracks of spheres, 
Or reads the book of fate. 

Thine eye so curbed in vision 
Now range the realms of space, 

Look down upon the rolling stars— 

Look up—in God’s own face. 

Thy little hand so helpless, 

That scarce its toy could hold, 

Now clasps its mate in holy prayer 
Or strikes the harp of gold. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


21 


Thy feeble feet unsteady, 

That tottered as they trod, 

With angels walk the heavenly paths 
Or stand before their God. 

What bliss is born of sorrow ! 

’Tis never sent in vain, 

The heavenly surgeon means to say 
He gives no useless pain. 

Our God to call us homeward, 

His only Son sent down, 

And now still more to tempt our hearts 
Has taken up our own. 

— Thomas Ward. 


22 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

As the sweet flower that scents the morn, 
But withers in the rising day, 

Thus lovely seemed the infant’s dawn, 

Thus swiftly fled his life away. 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 

Death timely came with friendly care, 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 

And bade it bloom forever there. 

Yet the sad hour that took the boy 
Perhaps has spared a heavier doom, 

Snatched him from scenes of guilty joy, 

Or from the pangs of ills to come. 

He died before his infant soul 

Had ever burned with strong desire— 

Had ever spurned at Heaven’s control, 

Or madly quenched its sacred fire. 

He died to sin, he died to care, 

But for a moment felt the rod ; 

Then, springing on the noiseless air, 

Spread his light wings, and soared to God. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


23 


SHE’S GANE TO DWAEL IN HEAVEN. 

She’s gane to dwall in Heaven, my lassie ! 

She’s gane to dwall in Heaven : 

Ye’re owre pure, quo’ the voice o’ God, 

For dwallin’ out o’ Heaven ! 

O what’ll she do in Heaven, my lassie ? 

0 what’ll she do in Heaven ? 

She'll mix her ain thochts wi’ angels’ sangs, 
An’ make them mair meet for Heaven. 

She was beloved by a’, my lassie : 

She was beloved by a’; 

But an angel fell in love wi’ her, 

An’ took her frae us a’. 

Low there thou lies, my lassie ! 

Low there thou lies ! 

A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird, 

Nor frae it will arise. 

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee, my lassie : 

Fu’ soon I’ll follow thee. 

Thou’s left me naught to covet ahin’ 

But took gudeness’ sel’ wi’ thee. 

I looked on thy death-cauld face, my lassie; 

I looked on thy death-cauld face : 

Thou .seemed a lily new cut i’ the bud, 

An’ fadin’ in its place. 


24 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie : 

I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 

An’ a lovelier light in the brow o’ Heaven . 

Fell Time shall ne’er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy an’ calm, my lassie : 

Thy lips were ruddy an’ calm ; 

But gane was the holy breath o’ Heaven 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There’s naught but dust now mine, lassie : 

There’s naught but dust now mine. 

My soul’s wi’ thee i’ the cauld grave, 

An’ why should I stay ailin’ ? 

—Allan Cunningham. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


25 


THE MOTHER’S FIRST GRIEF. 

She sits beside the cradle, 

And her tears are streaming fast, 

For she sees the present only, 

While she thinks of all the past ; 

Of the days so full of gladness, 

When her first-born’s answering kiss 
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture 
That it knew no other bliss. 

O those happy, happy moments ! 

They but deepen her despair ; 

For she bends above the cradle, 

And her baby is not there ! 

There are words of comfort spoken, 

And the laden clouds of grief 
Wear the smiling bow of promise, 

And she feels a sad relief ; 

But her wavering thoughts will wander, 
Till they settle on the scene 
Of the dark and silent chamber, 

Of all they might have been. 

For a little vacant garment, 

Or a shining tress of hair, 

Tells her heart in tones of anguish, 

That her baby is not there ! 

She sits beside the cradle, 

But her tears no longer flow, 


26 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


For she sees a blessed vision, 

And forgets all earthly woe ; 

Saintly eyes look down upon her, 

And the Voice that hushed the sea 
Stills her spirit with the whisper, 

‘ ‘ Suffer them to come to Me. ’ ’ 

And while her soul is lifted 

On the soaring wings of prayer, 

Heaven’s crystal gates swing inward, 

And she sees her baby there ! 

—Robert Smyth Chilton . 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


27 


A FAIR SIGHT. 

’Twas a fair sight ; the snow-pale infant sleeping, 

So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, 
Watch o’er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping ; 
Wondrous the love between the birds and child ! 

Still as he sickened seemed the doves, too, dwining, 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; 
And on the day he died, with sad note pining, 

One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 

His mother found it, when she rose, sad-hearted, 

At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; 

And when, at last, the little spirit parted, 

The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 

As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 

To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, 
Most pitifully plained—and parted too. 

’Twas my first hansel and propine to Heaven ; 

And as I laid my darling ’neath the sod, 

Precious His comforts—once an infant given, 

And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! 

— Mrs. A. Stuart Menteath. 


28 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


THE LITTLE GRAVES. 

’Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry 
And rustled on the ground, 

And chilly winds went whistling by 
With low and pensive sound. 

As through the graveyard’s lone retreat, 
By meditation led, 

I walked with slow and cautious feet 
Above the sleeping dead. 

The little graves, ranged side by side, 
My close attenion drew ; 

O’er two the tall grass bending sighed, 
And one seemed fresh and new. 

As lingering there, I mused a while 
On death’s long dreamless sleep, 

And morning life’s deceitful smile 
A mourner came to weep. 

Her form was bowed but not with years ; 
Her words were faint and few, 

And on those little graves her tears 
Distilled like evening dew. 

A prattling boy some four years old 
Her trembling hand embraced, 

And from my heart the tale he told 
Will never be effaced. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Mamma, now you must love me more 
For little sister’s dead ; 

And t’other sister died before, 

And brother too, you said. 

Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 

She loved me when we played, 

You told me if I would not cry 
You’d show me where she’s laid.” 

Tis here, my child, that sister lies, 

Deep buried in the ground ; 

No light comes to her little eyes, 

And she can hear no sound. ’ ’ 

Mamma, why can’t we take her up 
And put her in my bed ? 

I’ll feed her from my little cup 
And then she won’t be dead. 

For sister’ll be afraid to lie 
In this dark grave to-night, 

And she’ll be very cold, and cry 
Because there is no light. ’ ’ 

No, sister is not cold, my child ; 

For God, who saw her die 

As He looked down from heaven and smiled, 
Called her above the sky. 

And then her spirit quickly fled 
To God, by whom ’twas given; 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


30 


Her body in the ground is dead, 

But sister lives in heaven.’' 

“ Mamma, won’t she be hungry there, 
And want some bread to eat ? 

And who will give her clothes to wear, 
And keep them clean and neat ? 

* ‘ Papa must go and carry some : 

I’ll send her all I’ve got; 

And he must bring sweet sister home, 
Mamma, now must we not ? ” 

“ No, my dear child, that cannot be ; 

If you be good and true, 

You’ll one day go to her, but she 
Can never come to you. 

“ ‘ Let little children come to me,’ 

Once our good Saviour said, 

And in His arms she’ll always be, 
And God will give her bread.” 


—Seba Smith. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


3i 


THE REAPER—DEATH. 

There is a Reaper whose name is Death, 

And with his sickle keen, 

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

1 Shall I have aught that is fair ? ’ ’ saith he ; 

‘ ‘ Have naught but the bearded grain ? 

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again.” 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

‘ My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay,” 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 

‘ Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where He was once a child. ’ ’ 

‘ They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care, 

And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear. ’ ’ 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she would find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 


32 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


O not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The reaper came that day ; 

’Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


33 


THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily, all the night, 

Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with carrara 
Some chanticleer’s niuffled crow ; 

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down : 
And still wavered down the snow. 

I stood and watched from my window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood : 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 

As did robins the Babes in the Wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying “ Father, who makes it snow?” 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 


34 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 

And thought of the laden sky 
That arched o’er our first great sorrow 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remember the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our buried woe. 

And again to the child I whispered 
“ The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can bid it fall ! ’ ’ 

Then with eyes that saw not I kissed her, 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

—James Russell Lowell. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


35 


FOR CHARLIE’S SAKE. 

The night is late, the house is still: 

The angels of the hour fulfill 
Their tender ministries, and move 
From couch to couch, in cares of love. 

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 

The happiest smile of Charlie’s life, 

And lay on baby’s lips a kiss, 

Fresh from his angel-brother’s bliss ; 

And, as they pass they seem to make 
A strange, dim hymn, “ For Charlie’s sake.” 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 

And gives it to the night again, 

Fitted with words of lowly praise, 

And patience learned of mournful days, 

And memories of the dead child’s ways. 

His will be done, His will be done ! 

Who gave and took away my son, 

In the ‘ ‘ far land ’ ’ to sing and sing 
Before the beautiful, the King, 

Who every day doth Christmas make, 

All starred and belled for Charlie’s sake. 

For Charlie’s sake I will arise ; 

I will anoint me where he lies, 

And change my raiment, and go in 
To the Lord’s house, and leave my sin 
Without, and seat me at His board, 


36 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 

For wherefore shall I fast and weep, 

And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 

I cannot bring him back, nor he, 

For any calling come to me. 

The bond the angel Death did sign, 

God sealed—for Charlie’s sake and mine. 

I’m very poor—this slender stone 
Marks all the narrow field I own ; 

Yet, patient husbandman, I till 

With faith and prayers, that precious hill, 

Sow it with penitential pains. 

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; 

Content, if, after all, the spot 
Yield barely one forget-me-not, 

Whether figs or thistles make 
My crop, content for Charlie’s .sake. 

I have no houses, builded well— 

Only that little lonesome cell, 

Where never romping playmates come, 

Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning—dumb— 
An April burst of girls and boys, 

With rainbowed clouds of glooms and joys 
Born with their songs, gone with their toys; 
Nor ever is its stillness stirred 
By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, 

Or mother’s twilight legend told 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


37 


Of Horner’s pie, or Tiddlar’s gold, 

Or fairy hobbling to the door, 

Red-clothed and weird, banned and poor, 

To bless the good child’s gracious eyes, 

The good child’s wistful charities, 

And crippled changeling’s hunch to make 
Dance on his crutch, for good child’s sake. 

How is it with the child? ’Tis well ; 

Nor would I any miracle 

Might stir my sleeper’s tranquil trance, 

Or plague his painless countenance : 

I would not any seer might place 
His staff on my immortal’s face, 

Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, 

Charm back his pale mortality. 

No, Shunammite ! I would not break 
God’s stillness. Let them weep who wake. 

For Charlie’s sake my lot is blest : 

No comfort like his mother’s breast, 

No praise like her’s ; no charm expressed 
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 

For Charlie’s sake this bird’s caressed, 

That death left lonely in the nest; 

For Charlie’s sake my heart is dressed, 

As for its birthday, in its best ; 

For Charlie’s sake we leave the rest 
To Him who gave, and who did take, 

And saved us twice, for Charlie’s sake. 

—John Williamson Palmer 


38 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


BABY’S SHOES. 

O those little, those little blue shoes, 
Those shoes that no little feet use ! 

O the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 

Those little blue unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother’s eyes meet, 
That, by God’s good will, 

Years since grew still, 

And ceased from their totter .so sweet. 

And O, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 
With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure, 

And over them thought and wept ! 

For they remind her forever more 
Of a patter along the floor ; # 

And the blue eyes she sees 
Look up from her knees, 

With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 

There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That’s a gleam in the place, 

With its little golden ciwls of hair.. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 


39 


Then O, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 
Than those tiny blue shoes 
That no little feet use, 

And whose sight makes such fond tears start. 


— William Cox Betinett. 




4 o 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


DAVID’S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 

’Twas daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn 
Drew the night’s curtain, and touched silently 
The eyelids of the king, and David woke 
And robed himself and prayed, the inmates, now 
Of the vast palace were astir, and feet 
Glided along the tesselated floors, 

With pervading murmur, and the fount 
Whose music had been all the night unheard 
Played as if the light had made it audible, 

And each one, waking, blessed it, unaware, 

The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn 
Sweetened the air to ecstasy ; and now 
The king’s wont was to lie upon his couch 
Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court, 

And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven, 
Played with his loved son by the fountain’s lip ; 
For with idolatry confessed alone 
To the wrapt wires of his reproofless harp 
He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when 
The golden selvedge of his robe was heard 
Sweeping the marble pavement, from within 
Broke forth a child’s laugh suddenly, and words— 
Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only— 

Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy- 
An infant cherub, leaping as if used 
To hover with that motion upon wings 
And marvelously beautiful. His brow 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


4i 


Had the inspired uplift of the king’s, 

And kingly was his infantine regard, 

But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould 
Of Bathsheba’s—the hue and type of love, 

Rosy and passionate ; and 0I1, the moist 
Unfathomable blue of his large eyes 
Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, 

And drew the heart of the beholder in ; 

And this was like his mother. 

David’s lips 

Moved with unuttered blessings, and a while 
He closed the lids upon his moistened eyes, 

And with the round cheek of the nestling boy 
Pressed to liis bosom sat as if afraid 
That but the lifting of his lids might jar 
His heart’s cup from its fullness. Unobserved, 
A .servant of the outer court had knelt 
Waiting before him, and a cloud the while 
Had rapidly spread o’er the summer heaven, 
And as the chill of the withdrawing sun 
Fell on the king he lifted up his eyes 
And frowned upon the servant ; for that hour 
Was hallowed to his heart and his fair child, 
And none might seek him. And the king arose, 
And with a troubled countenance looked up 
To the fast-gathering darkness, and, behold, 
The servant bowed himself to earth and said, 

“ Nathan, the prophet, cometh from the Lord.” 


42 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


And David’s lips grew white, and with a clasp 
Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child 
He drew him to his breast, and covered him 
With the long foldings of his robe, and said, 

“ I will come forth. Go now.” And lingeringly 
With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, 

And mingled words of tenderness and prayer 
Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, 

He gave to them the child and bowed his head 
Upon his breast with agony. And so 
To hear the errand of the man of God 
He fearfully went forth. 

II. 

It was the morning of the seventh day ; 

A hush was in the palace, for all eyes 
Had woke before the morn, and they who drew 
The curtains to let in the welcome light 
Moved in their chambers with unslippered feet 
And listened breathlessly. And still no stir ! 

The servants who kept watch without the door 
Sat motionless ; the purple casement shades 
From the low windows had been rolled away 
To give the child air, and the flickering light 
That all the night within the spacious court 
Had drawn the watcher’s eyes to one spot only 
Paled with the sunrise and fled in. 

And hushed 

With more than stillness was the room where lay 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


43 


The king’s son on his mother’s breast. His locks 
Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirred, 

So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, 

She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan 
That from his lips all night broke fitfully 
Had silenced with the daybreak, and a smile— 

Or something that would fain have been a smile— 
Played in his parted mouth ; and, though his lids 
Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, 

His senses seemed all peacefully asleep, 

And Bathsheba in silence blessed the morn, 

That brought back hope to her. But when the king 
Heard not the voice of the complaining child, 

Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir, 

But morning there so welcomeless and still, 

He groaned and turned upon his face. The nights 
Had wasted and the mornings come, and days 
Crept through the sky unnumbered by the king 
Since the child sickened, and without the door, 

Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain, 

Listening only to the moans that brought 
Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice 
Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, 

In loving utterance all broke with tears, 

Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, 

And filled his prayer with agony. O God ! 

To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! 

How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on ! 


44 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


And when the spirit mournfully at last 
Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly, 

The comforting of friends falls on the ear, 

The anguish they would speak to gone to thee ! 

But suddenly the watchers at the door 
Rp.se up, and they who ministered within 
Crept to the threshold and looked earnestly 
Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba 
Held the unmoving child upon her knees, 

The curtains were let down, and all came forth, 
And, gathering with fearful looks apart, 

Whispered together. 

And the king arose 

And gazed on them a moment, and with voice 
Of quick, uncertain utterance, he asked, 

‘ ‘ Is the child dead ? ’ ’ They answered, ‘ ‘ He is dead 
But when they looked to see him fall again 
Upon his face and rend himself and weep— 

For while the child was sick his agony 
Would bear no comforters, and they had thought 
His heartstrings with the tidings must give way— 
Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe 
Gathered together like his kingly wont, 

He silently went in. 


And David came, 

Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house 
Of God went up to pray. And he returned, 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


45 


And they set bread before him, and he ate ; 

And when they marvelled, he said, “Wherefore 
mourn ? 

The child is dead, and I shall go to him, 

But he will not return to me. ’ ’ 

—Nathaniel P. Willis. 

SLEEP ON, MY BABE. 

Sleep on, my babe ! Thy little bed 
Is cold, indeed, and narrow ; 

Yet calmly there shall rest thy head, 

And neither mortal pain nor dread 
Shall e’er thy feelings harrow ! 

Thou may’st no more return to me, 

But there’s a time, my dearest, 

When I shall lay me down by thee, 

And when of all my babe shall be 
That sleep around, the nearest ! 

And sound our sleep shall be my child, 

Where earth’s foundation shaken ; 

Till He, the pure, the undefiled, 

Who once, like thee, an infant smiled, 

The dead to life awaken ! 

Then if to Him with faith sincere, 

My babe at death was given, 

The kindred tie that bound us here, 

Though rent apart with many a tear, 

Shad be renewed in Heaven ! — R. Haie. 


46 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


WHERE YOUR BABE IS. 

Ye who mourn 
Whene’r yon vacant cradle, or the robes 
That decked the lost one’s form, call back a tide 
Of alienated joy, can ye not trust 
Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care 
Passetli a mother’s love ! Can ye not hope, 

When a few hastening years their course have run, 
To go to him, though he no more on earth 
Returns to you ? And when glad faith doth catch 
Some echo of celestial harmonies, 

Archangel’s praises, with the high response 
Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think— 

Think that your babe is there ! 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


47 


MUCH THE BEST. 

Mother, I see you with your nursery light, 

Leading your babies, all in white, 

To their sweet rest; 

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night 
And that is best. 

I cannot help tears, when I see them twine 
Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 
On your warm breast ; 

But the Saviour’s is purer than yours or mine ; 

He can love best ! 

You tremble each hour because your arms 
Are weak ; your heart is wrung with alarms, 

And sore oppressed 

My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms. 

And that is best. 

You know over yours may hang even now 
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 
Naught can arrest ; 

Mine in God’s gardens run to and fro, 

And that is best. 

You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest may live long years alone, 

Unloved, unblest ; 

Mine are cherished of saints around God’s throne, 
And that is best. 


48 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 

You must dread for yours the crime that sears, 

Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears, 

And unconfessed; 

Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 

Oh, how much the best ! 

But grief is selfish ; I cannot see 
Always why I should so stricken be, 

More than the rest ; 

But I know that, as well as for them, for me 
God did the best ! 

—Helen Hunt Jackson. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


49 


BETTER IN THE MORNING. 

‘ You can’t help the baby, parson, 

But still I want ye to go 
Down an’ look in upon her, 

An’ read, an’ pray, you know, 

Only last week she was skippin’ ’round 
A pullin’ my whiskers ’n’ hair, 

A climbin’ up to the table 
Into her little high chair. 

‘ The first night that .she took it 
When her little cheeks grew red, 
When she kissed good night to papa, 
And went away to bed— 

Sez she, ‘ 'Tis headache, papa, 

Be better in mornin’—bye 
An’ somethin’ in how she said it, 

Just made me want to cry. 

‘ But the mornin’ brought the fever, 

And her little hands were hot, 

An’ the pretty red of her cheeks 
Grew into a crimson spot, 

But she laid there jest ez patient 
Ez ever a woman could, 

Takin’ whatever we give her 
Better’n a grown woman would. 

‘ The days are terrible long and slow, 
An’ she’s goin’ was in each ; 


5 ° 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


And now she’s jest a slippin’ 

Clear away out uv our reach 
Every night when I kiss her, 

Try in’ hard not to cry, 

She says in a way that kills me— 

‘ Be better in mornin’—bye.’ 

“ She can’t get through the night, parson 
So I want ye to come an’ pray, 

An’ talk with mother a little— 

You’ll know jest what to say ;— 

Not that the baby needs it, 

Nor that we make any complaint 
That God seems to think He’s needin’ 
The smile uv the little saint.” 

I walked along with the Corporal 
To the door of his humble home, 

To which the silent messenger 
Before me had also come, 

And if I had been a titled prince, 

I could not have been honored more 
Than I was with his heartfelt welcome 
To his lowly cottage door. 

Night falls again in the cottage ; 

They move in silence and dread 
Around the room where the baby 
Lies panting upon the bed. 

‘ ‘ Does baby know papa, darling ? ’ ’ 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


5i 


And she moves her little face 
With answer that she knows him ; 

But scarce a visible trace,. 

Of her wondrous infantile beauty 
Remains as it was before— 

The unseen silent messenger 
Had waited at the door, 

“ Papa—kiss baby ;—I’se so tired.” 

The man bows low his face, 

And two swollen hands are lifted 
In baby’s last embrace. 

And into her father’s grizzled beard 
The little red fingers cling, 

While her husky whispered tenderness 
Tears from a rock would wring, 

‘ ‘ Baby—is—so—sick—papa 
But—don’t —want you to cry 
The little hands fall on the coverlet— 

“ Be—better—in—mornin’—bye.” 

And the night around the baby is falling, 
Settling down hard and dense ; 

Does God need their darling in heaven 
That He must carry her hence ? 

I prayed, with tears in my voice 
As the Corporal solemnly knelt 
With grief such as never before 
His great warm heart had felt. 


52 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Oh, frivolous men and women ! 

Do you know that round you, and nigh—- 
Alike from the humble and haughty 
Goeth up evermore the cry : 

“ My child, my precious, my darling 
How can I let you die ! ’ ’ 

Oh ? hear ye the white lips whisper— 

‘ ‘ Be—better—in—mornin’—bye. ” 


—Lcander S. Coan. 





OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


53 


SWEET TO DIE. 

O it is sweet to die,—to part from earth,— 

And win all heaven for things of idle worth ! 

Then sure thou wouldst not, though thou couldst awake 
The little slumberer, for its mother’s sake. 

It is when those we love, in death depart, 

That earth has slightest hold upon the heart. 

Hath not bereavement higher wishes taught, 

And purified from earth, thine earth-born thought ? 

I know it hath. Hope then appears more dear, 

And Heaven’s bright realms shine brightest through a 
tear. 

Though it be hard to bid thy heart divide, 

And lay the gem of all thy love aside— 

Faith tells thee, and it tells thee not in vain, 

That thou shalt meet thine infant yet again. 


54 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


MY CHILD. 

I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 

Yet when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 

The vision vanishes—he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And, through the open door, 

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair : 

I’m stepping toward the hall 
To give the boy a call; 

And then bethinks me that—he is not there ! 

I tread the crowded street ; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair, 
And, as lie’s running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 

Scarcely believing that—he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin lid ; 

Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair ; 
My hand that marble felt ; 

O’er it in prayer I knelt ; 

Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there ! 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


55 


I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 

So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 
Seek him inquiringly, 

Before the thought comes that—he is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 
Of day from sleep I wake, 

When my first breathing of the morning air 
My soul goes up with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 

When comes the sad thought that—he is not there ! 

When at the day’s calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 

I’m with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 
Whate’er I may be saying 
I am in spirit praying 

For our boy’s spirit, though—he is not there ! 

Not there ! Where then is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave that now doth press 
Upon that cast-off dress 
Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there ! 

He lives ! In all the past 
He lives ; nor, to the last 


56 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 

Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And on his angel brow, 

I see it written, “ Thou shalt see me there ! ” 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That in the spirit land 
Meeting at thy right hand, 

’Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there ! 


—John Pier pout . 




OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


57 


THROUGH THE CURTAIN. 

I. 

My dearest baby, playing in the room, 

Runs through a curtain—parting as she goes 

And falling to again—and on tip-toes 

She stands, looks back, and says, “ all gone,” and night 

And silence are where there were speech and light; 

And I stand, waiting in the growing gloom, 

But in a moment comes a little hand, 

Puts back the curtain, and that sweetest face 
Smile-wreathed, and with a look of glad surprise 
Beaming and brimming in the dear blue eyes, 

Comes towards me as fast as running feet can race, 
And falling in my own wide arms’ embrace, 

Says, “ O,” as if she thought I would not stand, 

And wait for her, with patience, in my place. 

II. 

Through “The Veil.” 

My dearer darling ! Whose sweet presence made 
My work-time, play-time, and filled earth with light; 
I saw the veil lift, through which, out of sight 
You passed, and as it fell, there fell the shade 
Of sorrow, silence, solitude and night. 

‘ ‘ All gone ? ” I know God would not let that be ! 

I know that only to another room 

Of the dear Father’s House, thy soul hath come. 

I know it but an instant seems to thee, 


58 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Till, through the veil uplifted then for me, 

Thy voice shall fill my ear, thyself my eyes ! 

Shall it then stir in thee, love’s sweet surprise 
To know, that since you passed, in the same place 
You left me I have waited for thy face. 

—Bishop Doane. 

SWEET BOY, AT REST. 

His was the morning hour 
And he hath passed in beauty from the day ; 

A bud, not yet a flower, 

Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray ; 
The death winds swept him to his soft repose, 
As frost in springtime blights the early rose. 

We weep, though not in bitterness, 

Ours are not tears of gloom ; 

No thoughts but those of tenderness 
Shall glisten round his tomb : 

No painful recollections rise ; 

His morn—it dawned so blest 
And e’er a cloud had dimmed his .skies, 

Sweet boy, he was at rest. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


59 


A CHILD IN HEAVEN. 

Thou, God on high art Love, 

And dost by Love’s attractions draw our souls, 
Flitting in dusty circuit ’twixt the poles, 

Up to their home above ! 

And though we bear the weight 
Of moral nature, yet the loved and free 
We follow with strong pinion back to thee, 

And look in at thy gate. 

* * * * 

Love’s every grief is gain, 

Thereby earth holier grows, and heaven is nigher ; 
Souls that their idols here will not detain, 

Will follow and aspire. 

No path of sense may wile 

The yearning heart. It asks not if the road 
Have laurels to crown or odors to beguile, 

But does it lead to God ? 

Love, purity, repose, 

Faith cherished, duty done, and wrong forgiven, 
Be these the garland and the staff of those, 

Who have a child in heaven. 


—London A then. 


6 o 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


DEATH OF A CHILD. 

II. Samuel xii., 23 ; I. Samuel iii., 18 . 
Wherefore should I make my moan 
Now the darling child is dead ? 

He to rest is early gone 
He to Paradise is fled ! 

I shall go to him, but he 
Never shall return to me. 

God forbids his longer stay, 

God recalls the precious loan ! 

He hath taken him away, 

From my bosom to His own, 

Surely what He wills is best; 

Happy in His will I rest, 

Faith cries out, “ It is the Lord,” 

Let him do what seems him good, 
Be thy holy name adored, 

Take the gift a while bestowed ; 
Take the child no longer mine ; 

Thine he is, forever thine. 


—Charles Wesley. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


61 


THE EARLY CALLED. 

Called early, ere the summer’s glowing heat 
Should prove unfriendly to so frail a flower ; 

Or autumn’s chilling wind too rudely blow 
Across its garden bed. 

Transplanted now, 

Where kindred flowerets bloom it lives anew, 

A precious bud, in God’s own Paradise. 

’Twas but a tiny flower, sent for a while, 

A little while, to gladden parents’ hearts ; 

Then called away, that it might cause their thoughts 
To upward soar, and win their love from earth 
To Heaven. 

We gazed with chastened feeling on 

The Spoiler’s work. ’Twas but the casket there, 

For well we knew the precious gem had gone 
To deck a Saviour’s .sparkling diadem. 

* * * 

Yet, oh ! could we with our poor finite gaze 
But penetrate the misty veil, that hides 
The great unseen and beauteous world beyond ; 

Could we but catch a momentary view 
Of our celestial home ; could we behold 
The glittering crowd of white-robed babes that crowd 
Around the heavenly throne, we could not grieve 
That our beloved were safely anchored there ; 

From every care set free ; their eyes look love ; 


62 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Seraphic joy beams forth in every smile ; 

A wreath of sparkling gems, each radiant brow 
Entwines ; while Heaven’s high dome re-echoes back 
Their songs of praise. 

These are they the early called. 

These all have been redeemed, thro’ grace then called 
From earth away, ere sin’s polluting breath 
Had marred the beauty of their first estate ; 

And these are they of whom the Saviour spake 
Of such as these my heavenly kingdom is. 

STILL OURS. 

Passed from our sight within the veil, 

Still compassed by the Father’s care ; 

Why should our hearts their loss bewail, 

And sorrow darken to despair ? 

They breathe the fragrance of the flowers 
From the fair groves of Eden shed— 

Still ours though gone before, still ours 
Are they we call the Early Dead. 

— IV. H. Burleigh. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 63 


WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG. 

“ Whom the gods love die young,” was said of yore, 
And many deaths do they escape by this ; 

The death of friends and that which slays even more, 
The death of Friendship, Love, Youth, all that is, 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
The old Archer’s arrow, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

—Lord Byron . 

WE MISS THEM. 

We miss them when the board is spread, 

We miss them when the prayer is said ; 

Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness lies. 

—Cardinal Newman. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


“ COME THIS WAY, FATHER ! ” 

‘ ‘ Come this way, father ! ’ ’ 

’Twas my little boy’s voice 
Which guided my way, 

When on the wide sea 
In the fog my boat lay. 

’Twas the voice of my child 
As he stood on the shore ; 

It sounded out clear 
O’er the billow’s dark roar, 

“ Come this way, my father, 

And steer straight for me : 

Here, safe on the shore, 

I am waiting for thee. ’ ’ 

I knew the sweet voice 
’Midst rocks and rough breakers 
And high dashing spray : 

How sweet to my heart 
Did it sound from the .shore, 

As it came out so clear 
O’er the dark billow’s roar ! 

“ Come this way, my father, 

And steer straight for me; 

Here safe on the shore, 

I am waiting for thee. ’ ’ 

How great was my joy 
When I held to my breast 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 


65 


The form of that dear one, 
And soothed it to rest! 

For the tones of my child, 

‘ ‘ I called you, dear father, 
And knew you would hear 
The voice of your darling 
Far o’er the dark sea, 

While, safe on the shore, 

I was waiting for thee. ’ ’ 

That voice is now hushed 
Which then guided my way ; 
The form I then pressed 
Is now mingled with clay : 

But the tones of my child 
Still sound in my ear, 

‘ ‘ I am calling you, father, 

Oh ! can you not hear 
The voice of your darling, 

As you toss on life’s sea ? 

For on the bright shore 
I am waiting for thee. ’ ’ 

I think of that voice 
In many a lone hour ; 

It speaks to my heart 
With fresh beauty and power : 
And still echoes far out 
Over I^ife’s troubled wave, 


66 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


And sounds from loved lips 
That lie in the grave,— 

“ Come this way, my father ; 
Oh ! steer straight for me : 
Here, safely in heaven, 

I am waiting for thee. ’ ’ 

NOT OURS TO KEEP. 

I’d a dream to-night ; 

As I fell asleep. 

Oh ! the touching sight 
Makes me still to weep ; 
Of my little lad, 

Gone to leave me sad, 

Aye, the child I had, 

But was not to keep. 

As in Heaven high, 

I my child did seek, 
There in train came by 
Children fair and meek, 
Each in lily white, 

With a lamp alight; 

Each was clear to sight, 
But they did not speak. 
Then, a little sad, 

Came my child in turn, 
But the lamp he had, 

Oh ! it did not burn ; 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN- 67 


He, to clear my doubt, 

Said, half turned about, 

“ Your tears put it out; 

Mother never mourn ! ’ ’ 

— William Barnes, 

EARLY LOST AND SAVED. 

Nearest to God in childhood ! it is true, 

For then the heart wears not the deepened stain 
That after years bear to it ; morn’s sweet dew 
Has not yet sought in the blue sky, again 
Its first fair home ;—Hope’s sunshine is unshaded, 
Joy’s opening blossoms have not drooped or faded ; 
Life’s verdant paths have not been sadly trod 
By weary feet! the heart is near to God. 

Yes, we are near to God, ye little ones ! 

Nearer than those whose bright eyes have grown dim 
With bitter tears—to whose sad heart there comes 
No day unmarked by suffering and sin. 

Ye have not found amid earth’s blooming bowers, 
Shadows with sunbeams blended, thorns with flowers ; 
Ye sport with sinless mirth on the green sod 
’Neath the blue sky ;—Yes, ye are near to God ! 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


RESIGNATION. 

I hoped that with the brave and strong 
My portioned task might lie : 

To toil amid the busy throng 
With purpose pure and high. 

But God has fixed another part, 

And He has fixed it well; 

I said so, with my bleeding heart, 

When first the anguish fell. 

Thou, God, hast taken our delight, 

Our treasured hope away ; 

Thou bid’st us now weep through the night 
And sorrow through the day. 

These weary hours will not be lost— 

Those days of misery, 

These nights of darkness, anguish tossed— 
Can I but turn to Thee. 

With secret labor to sustain, 

In humble patience, every blow ; 

To gather fortitude from pain, 

And hope and holiness from woe. 

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, 
Whate’er may be my written fate : 

Whether thus early to depart, 

Or yet a while to wait. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 69 


If Thou should’st bring me back to life, 

More humbled I should be— 

More wise—more strengthened for the strife— 
More apt to lean on Thee. 

Should Death be standing at the gate, 

Thus should I keep my vow,— 

But, Lord ! whatever be my fate, 

Oh, let me .serve Thee now. 


—Charlotte Bronte. 





70 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


THY WILL BE DONE. 

O God, thy will be done ! 

We know not what the morrow may reveal, 

What dole soe’er of misery or weal. 

Yet may our spirits with thine own be one ; 

And set upon our brows thy royal seal, 

The name of Christ, thy Son. 

We ask thee for thy peace ! 

Unto the morrow shall suffice its pain, 

And every loss shall prove a surer gain, 

And every bondage lead to glad release. 

Let not thy discipline be sent in vain ; 

Yet give us, Lord, thy peace. 

We ask to do thy will, 

Not knowing yet what all that will may be, 

But trusting that no dire calamity, 

No hopeless grief, or needless breath of ill, 

Can ever reach the soul that rests in thee, 

And we can wait thy will. 

Thy comfort comes through pain, 

Thy tender hand the heavy burden lifts, 

And hope shines through the clouds in golden rifts 
And unto those who trust thee, come again 
Courage and peace, and all such kindred gifts, 

Clear shining after rain. 

And this is better so. 

Who knows the depths is strong to scale the height, 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Who knows the darkness best will love the light ; 

And those who bear Christ’s cross shall surely know 
The blessedness of those who walk in white 
After their toil below. 

Thy children must be tried, 

And so we dare not ask for joy or rest. 

Whatever thou shalt choose for us is best ; 

Whatever sorrow life’s short day may hide 
We know that when we waken on thy breast 
We shall be satisfied. 


7 2 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


THE DARKENED NURSERY. 

There’s room enough in the nursery now, 
’Twas crowded a little before,— 

For when the crib in the corner sat, 

The rockers came close to the door ; 

And the light was sweet, and the air was soft, 
And the room was filled with cheer, 

For all were chained to the chosen spot 
By the voice of the baby dear. 

Where is the sunshine—where is the noise? 

Where are the play-things gone ? 

What shall I do with my empty arms 
Sitting alone, alone ! 

What .shall I do with the empty crib ? 

Where shall I set his chair ? 

Must the darling little one’s clothes come down 
Oh, let me leave them there ! 

Nay, fold them up softly and put them by, 
Life is holier through this pain, 

Lay up the carriage —check the deep sigh, 
Take up life’s duties again : 

Turn the face fully toward Heaven and God ; 

His sweet peace shall keep thee still ; 

Bow low before him, kissing His rod, 

And murmur, love,—“ Just as God will.” 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


73 


THE PITCHER OF TEARS. 

The woman had closed her eyes, 

Aweary with weeping ; 

And leaned on the empty cradle, 

And sobbed in her sleeping. 

Her breast like the wave of the sea, 

Was rising and falling ; 

Her heart through the mist of sleep, 

On her baby was calling.. 

Then her soul was lifted away 
To the garden of heaven, 

Where flowers shine like stars in the grass, 
So smooth and so even ; 

And she saw where ’mid roses and May 
An angel did wander, 

With bright children who looked in his face 
To dream and to wonder. 

Alone, and apart from the rest, 

A little child tarried, 

And in his soft arms, small and round, 

A pitcher he carried. 

His sweet eyes looked wistfully toward 
His mates in the meadow ; 

Heaven’s glory was bright, but his face 
Bore the touch of earth’s shadow. 


74 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


The woman knelt down where she stood. 

“My own, my dearie, 

Now why do you wander alone, 

With little feet weary ? 

If you cannot come back, come back 
To the arms of your mother, 

’Tis your sweet hand the angel should hold, 

And never another. ” 

“ O ! mother, the pitcher of tears, 

Your tears, I must carry ; 

So heavy it weighs, that behind 
I linger and tarry. 

O ! mother, if you would smile, 

And cease from your weeping, 

My place by the angel’s side 
I’d gladly be keeping.” 

The woman waked by the cradle, 

And smiled in the waking. 

“ My baby, the pitcher of tears 
To my heart I am taking. 

Go, frolic and sing with your mates ; 

My smiles shall be given 
To make a new light round your head 
In the garden of heaven.” 

—Laura E . Richards. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


75 


QUESTIONINGS. 

Why do the children leave us, O our Father, 

The little children cradled on our breasts ? 

Why do our doves fly upward in the morning 
While other birdlings sleep within the nest ? 

Can it be true that music up in heaven 

Is sweeter when their voices join the hymn ? 

Is richer light to realms of glory given 

For that which fading left our home so dim ? 

And can the angels, who all day are giving 
Care to the lambs within the shepherd’s fold, 

Need, as a mother needs amid her grieving, 

The little ones at night to clasp and hold ? 

When shall we see again the precious faces 

That gave our homes such sunshine when they 
smiled ? 

O, what shall fill the heart’s sad vacant places, 

Or hush the tones that plead, “Give back the 
child? ” 

Why must we listen vainly for the patter 
Of little feet at morning on the stair, 

And miss the merry sound of childish laughter, 

Or gentle tones saying the evening prayer 

From lips that said their “good night ’’ at our knees ? 
O He, who made the mother-heart hath surely 

No chiding in His own for thoughts like these. 


76 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


In wrath or mercy ? Only He can tell, 

Perhaps in some sweet way there may be written 
Upon our hearts this record, “ It is well.” 

Perhaps the broken harps that thrill and quiver 
Through all the night, under the hand of pain, 

May, in the morning of a glad forever, 

Wake ’neath God’s touch to melody again. 

—Mary Lozve Dickinson. 

OUR FIRST-BORN. 

Our first-born and our only baby bereft ! 

Too fair a flower was she for this rude earth ! 

The features of her beauteous infancy 
Have faded from me, like a passing cloud, 

Or like the glories of an evening sky : 

And seldom hath my tongue pronounced her name 
Since she was summoned to a happier sphere. 

But that dear love, so deeply wounded then. 

I in my soul with silent faith sincere 
Devoutly cherish till we meet again. 

—Robert Southey. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


77 


EMPTY CRADLES. 

Oh, the empty, empty cradles, 

That must now be put away, 

For the little ones will need them 
Nevermore by night or day, 

For the pure and dreamless sleepers, 
Nevermore they’ll rock to rest, 

Their bright heads upon the pillows, 
Shall no more be softly pressed ! 

In the still and solemn nightfall, 
Death’s pale angel noiseless sped, 

“ I have gathered only Lilies, 

For my Lord to-day,” he said ; 

Oh, the Lilies, the White Lilies, 

That make earthly homes so bright, 
How many, many buds are missing, 
Since the happy morning light ! 

Waxen hands, with blossoms in them 
Faces very white and fair, 

Curtained eyes, like hidden starlight, 
Silken rings of sunny hair. 

Hushed and still, we gaze upon them 
And we scarcely know our loss ; 

But to-morrow we shall feel it, 

Almost crushed beneath the cross. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Little robes, so richly broidered, 

Wrought with so much love and pride, 
Dainty laces, pale, blue ribbons, 

They must all be laid aside ; 

For in glorious robes of brightness 
Are the little ones arrayed, 

All unstained by earth the whiteness, 
Such a little while they stayed. 

Ah, the busy, busy mornings, 

And the nights of anxious care ; 

Now, there is no need of watching, 
There’ll be time enough to .spare. 
There’s no baby’s voice, we’ll listen, 
Thinking that we hear it oft ; 

On our face no baby fingers, 

Touches like the rose leaves soft. 

Never mind the noisy household, , 

Nor loud foot-falls on the stair, 

’Twill not wake the peaceful sleeper, 
There’s no baby anywhere, 

In a casket, white as snow-flakes, 
Nestling all among the flowers, 

Are the pure and spotless Lilies, 

That a little while were ours. 

In our dreams, midst dazzling brightness, 
And a rapturous burst of .song, 
Through our tears we saw above us, 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 


79 


Oh ! the radiant spirit throng ! 

In their arms so softly cradled 
Our own little ones we know, 

And we hear them gently whisper 
“ The White Lilies from below.” 

Wide the shining gates are opened, 

For the children are at home, 

Back to us come the sweet echoes, 

“ Oh, suffer them to come ! ” 

Put away the empty cradles, 

Keep we only in our sight 
That bright glimpse of the fair dwelling 
Which the children have to-night ! 

THE DEAD BOY. 

He crossed the sill ; she pointed to the bed ; 

There lay her boy, his innocent curly head 
Nestled upon the pillow, and his face 
Lit with a solemn and unearthly grace 
That crowns but once the children of our race ; 
God gives it when He takes them—he was dead ! 

A broken toy, a bunch of withered flowers, 

In his thin hands were clasped, his breast above 
The last frail ties that to this world of ours 
Has linked the sufferer—save a mother’s love. 

— Wrn, Allen Butler . 


8 o 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


MY BABY. 

Such a little break in the sod I 
So tiny to be a grave ! 

Oh ! how can I render so soon to God 
The beautiful gift He gave ? 

Must I put you away, my pet— 

My tender bud unblown— 

With the dew of the morning upon you yet 
And your blossoms all unshown ? 

My heart is near to break, 

For the voice I shall not hear, 

For the clinging arms around my neck, 
And the footsteps drawing near. 

The tiny, tottering feet, 

Striving for mother’s knee, 

For the lisping tones so .sweet, 

And the baby’s kiss to me. 

For the precious mother-name, 

And the touch of the little hand, 

O ! am I so very much to blame 
If I shrink from the sore demand ? 

How shall I know her voice, 

Or the greeting of her eyes, 

’Mid the countless cherubs that rejoice, 

In the gardens of Paradise ? 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


81 


How shall I know my own, 

Where the air is white with wings— 

My babe, so soon from my bosom flown, 

To the angels’ musterings? 

And this is the end of it all ! 

Of my waiting and my pain— 

Only a little funeral pall, 

And empty arms again. 

O, baby ! my heart is sore 
For the love that was to be, 

For the untried dream of love, now o’er, 
’Twixt thee, my child, and me. 

Yet over this little head, 

Lying so still on my knee, 

I thank my God for the bliss of the dead, 
For the joy of the soul set free. 

’Tis a weary world, at best, 

This world that she will not know. 

Would I waken her out of such perfect rest, 
For its sorrow and strife ? Ah, no ! 

Escaped are its thorns and harms ; 

The only path she has trod 

Is that which leads from the mother’s arms 
Into the arms of God. 


The Evangelist . 


82 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


SOWING IN TEARS. 

Straight and still the baby lies, 

No more smiling in his eyes, 
Neither tears nor wailing cries. 

Smiles and tears alike are done ; 

He has need of neither one— 

Only, I must weep alone. 

Tiny fingers, all too slight, 

Hold within their grasping tight, 
Waxen berries scarce more white. 

Nights and days of weary pain, 

I have held them close—in vain ; 
Now I never shall again. 

Crossed upon a silent breast, 

By no suffering distressed, 

Here they lie in marble rest. 

They shall ne’er unfolded be, 

Never more in agony 
Cling so pleadingly to me. 

Never ! O the hopeless sound 
To my heart so closely wound 
All his little being round ! 

I forget the .shining crown, 

Glad exchange for cross laid down, 
Now his baby brows upon. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


Yearning sore, I only know 
I am very full of woe— 

And I want my baby so ! 

Selfish heart, that thou shouldst prove 
So unworthy of the love 
Which thine idol doth remove ! 

Blinded eyes, that cannot see 
Past the present misery, 

Joy and comfort full and free ! 

O ! my Father, loving Lord ! 

I am ashamed at my own word ; 
Strength and patience me afford. 

I will yield me to thy will; 

Now thy purposes fulfill; 

Only help me to be still. 

Though my mother-heart shall ache, 

I believe that for thy sake 
It shall not entirely break. 

And I know I yet shall own, 

For my seeds of sorrow sown, 

Sheaves of joy around thy throne ! 


84 OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


A MOTHER’S LAMENT. 

Make it wide, make it deep, and with moss be it lined 
His delicate limbs no rude pebbles shall wound; 

My babe with its mother in death shall be joined. 
Then the lord of my wishes, no longer unkind, 

May shed a fond tear on the grief-hallowed ground. 
Lay it close by my side, 

Lay it close by my side ; 

’Tis the child of my Edmond, and I was his bride. 

Who says that I murdered the peace of my love— 
That his heart was another’s, his hand only mine? 
Hush, hush ! ’tis not true ! Her affection to prove, 
His Eudora each obstacle soon will remove, 

Content for his sake every bliss to resign. 

With my babe on my breast, , 

With my babe on my breast, 

My heart’s lord shall be happy, and I be at rest. 

Then if, hand locked in hand, o’er my grave they 
should stray, 

And vanity smile o’er the ruins of love, 

Yet let justice and pity instruct them to say, 

“ She merited better, but fate had its way, 

And now her pure spirit is soaring above, 

With her babe on her breast, 

With her babe on her breast, 

Now earth shrinks from her view, and the mourner’s 
at rest.” 


—Elizabeth Trefusis. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


MY BOY ! 

I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin lid ; 

Closed are his eyes ; cold his forehead fair ; 
My hand that marble felt, 

O’er it in prayer I knelt; 

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there ! 

Not there ? Where then is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear, 
The grave that now doth press 
Upon that cast-off dress, 

Is but his wardrobe locked ; he is not there ! 

He lives ! in all the past 
He lives ! nor, to the last, 

Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now, 

And on his angel brow, 

I see it written, ‘ ‘ Thou shalt see me there ! 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That in the spirit land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 

’Twill be our heaven to find that he is there 


86 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


THE DYING CHILD. 

Mother, I’m tired, and I would fain be sleeping. 

Let me repose upon thy bosom seek ; 

But promise me thou wilt leave off weeping : 

Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. 

Here it is cold, the tempest raveth madly ; 

But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright ; 

I see the angel-children smiling gladly, 

When from my weary eyes I shut out light. 

Moiher, one stands beside me now ! and listen ! 

Dost thou not hear the music’s sweet accord ? 

See how his white wings beautifully glisten ! 

Surely those wings were given by our Lord ! 
Green, gold and red are floating all around me ; 

They are the flowers that angel scattereth. 

Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me ? 
Or, mother, are they given alone in death ? 

Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going? 

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus into mine ? 
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing :— 

I will, dear mother, will be always thine ! 

Do not sigh thus, it marreth my rejoicing; 

And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee,— 
Oh, I am tired ; my weary eyes are closing :— 
Look, mother, look ! the angel kisseth me ! 

—Hans Christian Anderson. 

Transl. of Mary Howitt. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 87 


AN INDIAN MOTHER’S LOVE. 

Os-he-ouh-mai, the wife of Little Wolf, one of the 
Iowa Indians, died while at Paris, of an affection of 
the lungs, brought on by grief for the death of her 
young child in London. Her husband was unremit¬ 
ting in his endeavors to console and restore her to the 
love of life, but she constantly replied, “ No ! no ! my 
four children recall me. I see them by the side of the 
Great Spirit. They stretch out their arms to me, and 
are astonished that I do not join them.” 

No ! no ! I must depart 

From earth’s pleasant scenes, for they but wake 
Those thrilling memories of the lost which shake 
The life-sands from my heart. 

Why do ye bid me stay ? 

Should the rose linger when the young buds die 
Or the tree flourish when the branches lie 
Stricken by sad decay ? 

Doth not the parent dove, 

When her young nurslings leave their lowly home 
And soar on joyous wings to heaven’s blue dome, 
Fly the deserted grove ? 

Why then should I remain ? 

Have I not seen my sweet-voiced warblers soar, 

So far away that Love’s fond wiles no more 
May lure them back again ? 


88 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


They cannot come to me ; 

But I may go to them, and as the flower 
Awaits the dewy eve, I wait the hour 
That sets my spirit free. 

Hark ! heard ye not a sound 
Sweeter than wild-bird’s note or minstrel lay? 

I know that music well, for night and day 
I hear it echoing round. 

It is the tuneful chime 
Of spirit voices ! ’tis my infant band 
Calling the mourner from this darkened land 
To joy’s unclouded clime. 

My beautiful, my blest ! 

I see them there by the Great Spirit’s throne ; 

With winning words and fond beseeching tone 
They woo me to my rest. 

They chide my long delay, 

And wonder that I linger from their home ; 

They stretch their loving arms to bid me come— 
Now would ye have me stay ? 

-E. S. S. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


89 


WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage girl : 

She was eight years old, she said ; 

Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad ; 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 

Her beauty made me glad. 

“ Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? ’ ’ 

“ How many ? Seven in all,” she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

“ And where are they ? I pray you tell.” 

She answered : ‘ ‘ Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 

‘ ‘ Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

My sister and my brother ; 

And in the churchyard cottage, I, 

Dwell near them with my mother. ’ * 


90 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


“ You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea, 

Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 

Sweet maid, how this may be.” 

Then did the little maid reply : 

‘ ‘ Seven boys and girls are we ; 

Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

Beneath the churchyard tree.” 

“You run about, my little maid ; 

Your limbs they are alive ; 

If two are in the churchyard laid, 

Then ye are only five.” 

” Their graves are green, they may be seen,” 
The little maid replied : 

“ Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, 
And they are side by side. 

“ My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem ; 

And there upon the ground I sit, 

And sing a song to them. 

“ And often after sunset, sir, 

When it is light and fair, 

I take my little porringer, 

And eat my supper there. 

“ The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


9i 


Till God released her from her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

“ So in the churchyard she was laid ; 

And when the grass was dry, 

Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and I. 

“ And when the ground was white with snow, 
And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side. ’ ’ 

“ How many are you, then,” said I, 

“ If they too are in heaven? ” 

Quick was the little maid’s reply : 

‘ ‘ O Master ! we are seven. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! ” 

Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 

And said : “ Nay, we are seven ! ” 

— William Wordsworth. 


92 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. . 


A YEAR IN HEAVEN. 

A year in heaven for her. What is she learning 
Of holy things, of things divine and true ? 
What glorious visions there are still unfolding 
Which here she never knew ? 

Did angel friends await her at her coming ? 

Did angel faces greet her with a smile ? 

Were all the dear ones eager to receive her 
Whom she had lost awhile ? 

A year on earth for us without her presence— 

A year of loneliness and grief and pain ; 

But still we smile amid our tears in thinking 
Our loss is but her gain. 

We miss her in our joys and in our sorrows ; 

She was our life, our center and our sun, 

And yet we would not call her back, but whisper, 
“ O God, thy will be done ! ” 

For heaven and earth are very close together ; 

Though, she is there, she is not far away ; 

She could not leave the dear ones, loved so fondly, 
Even in heaven to stay ! 

But still her spirit, like a guardian angel, 

Is bending o’er us with her own fond care ; 

And sometimes she brings heaven so very near us 
We almost think we’re there. 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 

A year in heaven for her, of rest and blessing ; 

For us a year on earth, with her above ; 

But heaven and earth are both together blending 
And over all is Love. 


93 


94 


OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN. 


THE RECONCILIATION. 

As through the land at eve we went, 
And plucked the ripened ears, 

We fell out, my wife and I, 

Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 

And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 
We lost in other years, 

There above the little grave, 

Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again with tears. 


—Alfred Tennyson 



EVANGELINE; 

A TALE OF AC A DIF. 

By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

MINNEHAHA EDITION. 


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The Oxford Teachers’ Bible. 



IIS AMERICAN MANUFACTURERS we are enabled to 
offer lower prices and higher qualities than foreign 
houses. THE OXFORD TEACHERS’ BIBLE has a wide 
reputation for typographical beauty and accuracy, com¬ 
bined with elegant soft leather bindings, displaying the 
highest taste and perfection of the modern book-maker’s 
art. They contain all the latest helps, Maps, Illustrations, 
Concordance, etc. 

All gold edges; round corners; divinity circuit (over¬ 


lapping edges); large, clear type (minion). Ust 0ur 

8vo; Size, 7 3-4x5 in. Price. Price. 

(1) Bouud in French Seal. $3.00 $1.50 

(2) Bound in Tuscan Seal, lined with En lish Kid.... 3.75 2.00 

(3) Bound in Palestine Morocco, red under gold edges 5.50 3.00 

Pocket Edition, containing all the helps, Maps, etc.: 

French Seal, large, clear type, no marginal notes ... 2.75 I .25 

Same bound in Morocco, gold edges. 3.50 1.75 

Pocket Bible, without helps, but containing Maps 

and Illustrations, French Seal. 2.50 I .25 

Same bound in Cloth. 1.75 .75 


Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 

WILMORE-ANDREWS PUBLISHING CO., 

24 East 24th St., New York City. 



































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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